


Aim for the Ground

by TheDelightfulRogue (Backwardsmuffin)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Birds, Cheating, F/M, High School, Kid Fic, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Student!Cas, Student!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwardsmuffin/pseuds/TheDelightfulRogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Castiel. You are 24</p><p>"Flying is easy - You just aim for the ground and miss"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aim for the Ground

**"Flying is easy ~ Just aim for the ground and miss"**

 

 

 

At first it was butterflies and you were 2.

Small and dainty and in all the colours of the rainbow. So entrancing that you just had to run with them ; chase them round the garden or the park or wherever you where until finally, they would stop and you could make out the pattern on their wings; spots or stripes or eyes- always changing and always beautiful.

You watched as they danced through the sky; their wings fluttering and floating as if it were the simplest thing on earth.

* * *

Then it was ducklings and you were 5.

 

You saw them in the park. Sat on your mother’s knee, overlooking the pond you watch as they swim to the bank. Their tiny yellow puffball wings poking out to the sides- flapping erratically as they try and leap onto the shore.

You smile and giggle and try and run over to them; wanting to feel those soft, soft wings below your fingers and wondering - not for the first time- why you don’t have wings of your own; but your mother stops you.

The ducklings are too little and you; small as you yourself are- are still too big to play with them at the moment. Bad things could happen, and if bad things happen then the ducklings might hurt their wings, and then how could they fly?

A month or so later you return to the park to see the ducklings have grown exponentially. You watch as they scramble up onto the shore; their wings not yet fully formed - still peaked with pale and fluffy baby feathers - but strong enough to lift them clear of the ground.

You think this is what your wings would be like – if you had them.

* * *

Then it’s a pigeon and you are 7.

It’s the first time you truly see what happens when a bird damages its wings.

It is in the town centre as you wait outside the bank for your mother. Across the street, two boys - who look much bigger than you and must at least be teenagers, are kicking a pigeon. It’s not big- just the average pigeon; all chubby chest and poky feet - certainly not large enough to defend itself.

As you watch on you remember what your mother said back at the pond and you realise, that a pigeon met with boot clad feet is as helpless as a duckling met with the sticky hands of a toddler.

Slowly, you watch as the boys beat it down; the grey plumage becoming messy and matted together with mud from the boy’s shoes.

It keeps trying to fly away but its right wing is hanging off to the side at an awkward angle and you can just make out some red stuff dripping from the tip that you pray is spilt tomato sauce.

It’s not.

And by the time you call out to the boys and tell them to stop, it’s too late. Besides, you know you aren’t the most intimidating kid – so it’s not like they would have listened anyway. Apparently bow ties don’t scream authority on a young child.

You run across the road as the boys walk off laughing. You bend down and take in the appearance of the bird. Bloodied, bruised and unable to fly – it’s utterly helpless - without its wings the bird is nothing - and even you can tell that the poor creatures’ are damaged beyond compare.

The bird tries to escape from you – it would probably look terrified if you knew what a terrified pigeon looked like. You didn’t…but you think you do now.

You get to your knees and gently stroke the pigeons head with your finger. It’s still warm, but it feels sticky and as you pull away your finger you see it’s like it’s been dipped in tacky red paint.

You don’t care- blood isn’t enough to put you off helping the poor thing.

* * *

You’re still there, comforting the bird when your mother emerges from the bank. She scowls at you as she storms across the road; already calling out your name as if it were the devils own.

You don’t care.

You keep the bird cradled in your hands and keep stroking the poor things head as your mother moans and complains in despair…’you weren’t good…punishment…don’t run off…don’t be stupid’.

You’ve heard it before, but this time you had a reason. You think maybe if you show her the pigeon, she’ll understand- understand your motive for running off and maybe she won’t be angry anymore.

Instead as you open your hands she blanches and tugs you away so fast that you drop the poor thing flat on the ground.

It hits the earth with a crunch.

You shout out in protest, but she doesn’t care. It’s all about ‘hygiene’ and ‘dirty disease ridden creatures…scum of the earth and why are you touching it…why are you even sharing air space with it?’

Then you show her its wing…all battered and bloody and you tell her about the nature program you saw the other day and how they helped mend the owl’s wing and you suggest that maybe you could do the same for the pigeon; but your mother laughs.

'No…Of course not. Pigeons are disgusting…they are scum…they are plague and they are vermin…it's a good thing that it's hurt.'

And you try and tell her about the nasty boys but she still shakes her head.

'The pigeon deserves it' she says…'and it doesn't deserve your help. Why help something so beaten down that there's no hope of it getting back up…especially something so…disgusting.'

You try and protest, but it’s to no avail. She grabs the back of your jacket and starts to pull you back to the car. You consider screaming so she’ll let you go, but think better of it just in time. She mutters profanities all the way to the car and never once loosens her grip on you until she shoves you into the back seat of the car and slams the door.

You have half a mind to cry as she drives off. To say something- to beg and plead until she’ll let you go back and help the bird. But then you see her face, and you know it’s already a lost battle.

* * *

Instead, you make up some stupid excuse about needing new shoes so you can come back to town the next day…but it’s no good. There is no pigeon - just a small cluster of feathers floating across the ground and the odd smear of blood show that the pigeon ever even existed. Your mother makes a small tutting sound as you pass the remains and you just stare. Slowly she drags you past; commenting about how she told you so and how there was never any hope.

You know it’s probably dead - it makes you sad and what your mother is saying hardly helps. You always get sad when an animal dies- even the little red beetle you trod on last week made you tearful, and she knows that. You think she’s just being cruel. Trying to prove her know-it-all-abilities in some twisted, ‘ _I was right scenario’_  and it makes your chest hurt.

But then, as you are trying on the second pair of pointless sneakers, you start to think; think that maybe your mother was right…maybe it was doomed in the first place. Maybe there was no point in trying to help the pigeon out because it was already so bad…but still…somehow you feel glad that it found death.

Because the longer you think about it the more you realise that death was the birds escape…its new wings; a way of getting out of the beaten body and onto something new…and then…then you aren’t so sad…and you start to think the 3 hour shopping trek you are being forced to endure may just be worth that little piece of information your young mind has newly acquired.

You suddenly feel very philosophical for a seven year old.

* * *

Then it’s just time.

You always wanted to have wings. You are aware of this now.

As a child; running through the corn fields with your imagination booming and suddenly the crops become trees and your arms become wings and you’re flying, soaring. Going at a million miles an hour with the wind in your hair and the corners of your eyes stinging but you won’t stop because you’re free. Limbs outstretched like a bird in flight and suddenly everything is right.

Everything is so easy, so perfect when you have wings.

They are an escape…and escape to a perfect paradise. On the ground everything is so fragile and breakable - like your knee when you fell last week - but up there; up where the birds go that no human knows…that’s where you want to be.

You’ve never seen any bird hurt in flight. The only time a bird seems to suffer is when it’s on the ground…maybe it’s the same for you.

* * *

Then you are 8.

You are dressed all in black and you aren’t quite sure why.

Your shirt is itchy and you keep trying to scratch at your shoulders but your mother keeps smacking your hand away. Then you just shrug a lot. This suit is too big and the ill fit is making the itching worse.

You want to take it off and go home and put on your red shorts you wore yesterday; the ones that could go in water and be walked around in because they were great and awesome and colourful and just brilliant to you. They even had a bird shaped logo thing on them and that just made them the best thing ever.

But mother says everything will be explained when you get ‘ _there’_.

You aren’t quite sure where ‘ _there’_  is, but when you arrive ‘ _there’_ with your parents and Gabriel, you see everyone else looks to be wearing uncomfortable black things too and suddenly you don’t feel so bad.

You ask Gabe why everyone is wearing all black, but he doesn’t respond. He just sort of…stares; not really seeing but almost floating.

His eyes look red though and you feel sad.

You don’t ask again.

* * *

The place you go to from ‘ _there’_  is a church.

Everyone in black goes into the church and sits down.

You and your parents sit somewhere near the middle, whilst Gabe sits up near the front.

You still don’t understand what’s going on – but then music starts playing and some people walk in with a big box on their shoulders and you don’t really want to ask.

People start singing sad songs about God and you don’t really know what to do, so you hum along; slightly out of tune, but you don’t know the words because mother has the book with them in it and she’s holding it too high up. You watch the box as it heads up to the front of the church and you wonder what’s inside.

It makes you feel sick when the priest steps forward and puts a picture of a young boy on the top if it and suddenly you realise that the box contains  _that boy_.

Which means the boy…died?

How did a boy die?

You know that old people die. A few months ago father told you that your great uncle Tobias had died because he was old and you cried at that – but…old age …young people can’t die of that, the clue is in the name to be honest.

All you friends say that too. Joey said his grandma died of old age and so did loads of other peoples – the only other cause you know of is cancer, but that boy looks more like a Gemini so that couldn’t be right.

So old age – ergo, only old people died…

But…apparently not – and Oh God, the priest reads out the boys name and suddenly you recognise the photo, even though it’s a little blurry from all the way back here.

He’s Gabriel’s friend.

Michael, you think.

You liked him. He came over once and helped you find your missing parrot doll whilst Gabe got food. He said you were cool.

But now you understand why Gabriel is at the front. All the crying people are at the front, and Gabe definitely looked like he could cry… You think it might be better for you to be at the front. Because you feel a bit like crying now but everyone around you is stock still.

You hold in your tears.

You don’t want to upset your parents.

* * *

One thing that confuses you, is what the priest says at the end.

He talks about ashes and dust and all the stuff like that, but then he talks about angels and you don’t really understand.

Your teacher said that angels were Gods messengers – who told people important things for God – like telling Mary about her baby.

But the priest says that Michael is up flying amongst the angels now, as one of them.

And you don’t understand.

Because the last, and only time you saw him, you were pretty sure he didn’t have wings.

Granted, you didn’t check – but you’re pretty sure someone would have told you of there were random winged folk wondering around.

You ask mother, and this time she answers, maybe only to shut you up but it’s still good enough.

She says that you become an angel when you die – only if you were good mind you – and God calls you to his side and you get to see everyone you love, even if they aren’t dead and you get to be happy for ever.

It sounds pretty good.

Flying all over the place with angels in paradise.

Certainly sounds better than earth anyway.

You bet heaven doesn’t have bullies.

* * *

Then you are 10.

And your bullying has got worse than ever.

You remember how your dress sense hardly made you the scariest person when you were younger – but then it was just seen as adorable.

Now it’s seen as a blaring beacon. If bullies were animals on the Serengeti then your clothing would be bloodied meat – because they just smell you coming.

Add that to your love of reading and writing and the fact that you are hardly the sportiest fellow and everyone seems to suddenly hate you.

Sometimes you think going to heaven would be better than this, but when you asked a teacher they said going to heaven wasn’t good for you at this age – which got you confused again.

But still; you like to ponder on that thought during the lonely recesses you spend sitting beneath a dilapidated willow tree behind the gym, eating your snack alone when you slip away from the teacher’s supposedly eagle-eyed watch – the one they mysteriously lose when some kid thinks it’s ok to punch you.

But still, even at this age, the idea of a place where you can fly around without cares sounds amazing. And your aren’t afraid to admit that even at ten you spend many an hour wondering just how one could get to heaven at this age and have it be a good thing. Surely there has to be a loophole.

There was for Gabriel’s friend.

But he was a teenager.

Maybe you just have to wait until then…

* * *

Then you are 13.

Gabriel has left for college.

You sit on the staircase, hands looped around the banisters, clinging to them with a death grip that makes your knuckles white.

You hear your parents arguing.

You hate it when they argue – especially when it’s about you.

But this time, it doesn’t seem to be looking up.

Usually one of them will point out one of your good qualities, or one of your achievements, and then the verbal blows will soften and then they fade into a resigned ‘ok’ which leaves you not feeling so guilty and usually punishment free. You know the routine; you’ve sat right where you are now enough times to almost recite the fights from heart.

But this time, neither seems to be making a move to stick up for you.

It’s not – ‘but he did get good grades this semester’ or ‘but the teachers say he’s so polite’

No. Its ‘well where shall he go?’ and ‘disgraceful attitude’ and ‘what would your parents say?’ followed by a ‘well what would  _yours?’_ and no, it definitely doesn’t seem to be looking up.

You hear some awful words that night. Truly, truly awful words you honestly never thought could be uttered by your parents – or any parent that is, about ones child.

'Faggot', 'shameful' and 'sick' are thrown around like fairies in a kindergarten story and the ample abuse you seem to be experiencing behind your back makes your eyes water.

Yet still you sit,  _just_  hidden from view as you clutch the stair case tighter and tighter, as if it could hold you back and offer some form of comfort.

It can’t.

You’ve tried enough times and never received a response before.

* * *

You feel like you should know better. You should never have told them, should never have even brought up what you thought you were, it would have been so much better – but you still feel you owed them. You have no clue why of course, but you suppose it is the ingrained feeling that every well behaved child experiences when they try and lie to those who raised them; A deep gut wrenching guilt that causes you to spill everything anyway. You know you would have told them anyway, but you kind of wish you’d waited just a little longer.

Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so bad when you hear their rejection.

* * *

This is one of those times you wish for wings.

As your frozen toes drum against the carpeted steps and you long for comfort, you just wish you could soar up into the sky and wrap yourself in a cloud.

Be warm and cosy even just for a while – until all of this had blown over, or until you were old enough to get in to heaven…

…

But then you remember what your pastor once said

Heaven isn’t for  _gay_  people…

And this thought is what finally brings you to tears.

* * *

They call you down early the next morning. Mother scowls at your dry skin and tells you off, but you vouch – in your head – that that was only caused by the tears, so really it’s their fault, not yours.

Father makes a crude joke about the homosexuals and makeup and you don’t really get it but you know it was meant to hurt you, so your ignorance to its actual meaning is a momentary bliss right now.

They sit you down at the breakfast table, not offering you any food or drink, simply staring as you shift uncomfortably around on the rough wooden surface of the dining chair minus its usual cushion.

They tell you not to tell anyone what you just told them.

You point out that half the school already knows, or at least they suspect and then your father slams his fist down on the table next to you. He tells you that you need to disprove them then.

You try and reiterate that you are actually gay, and weren’t you always taught lying was wrong.

But father is having none of it.

He says you should build a car together and join the football team and try out for soccer and baseball and every- freaking -thing you can.

He also suggests getting a girl friend.

You say no.

He slaps you.

You don’t disagree again.

* * *

What he does with you doesn’t make a difference.

You’re too small for most of the teams and half the guys kick up a fuss at the idea of having to share a changing room with you.

The car project just failed. You were good at it, great in fact. Father seems to have mistaken ‘gay’ for ‘utterly-incapable-of-doing-apparently-masculine-things’ so you give him a hell of a surprise.

Unfortunately for him though, you still like penis as much as you did when you started this, so his plan hasn’t really worked, but still…it hurts you to see that he hopes it will.

But none the less, you stay gay and that sucks.

* * *

Then you are 14

And you learn that pigeons aren’t the only thing people consider scum.

You were called a lot of things that night.

And you tried to fight back, if only to protect your friend. But you couldn’t.

Those boys were twice your size and armed with bats and sticks and fists and feet and whatever you did just made them hit you harder.

All the time calling out scum, scum,  _scum._

And you wake up three days later in a hospital bed – the room empty bar the beep of machines – and you realise that this is what life will be like now.

You’re gay. The world knows it. And there’s no way of taking it back.

You wonder what your family thinks.

If they were disappointed before, what will it be like now?

It takes you three days to realise you parents aren’t coming to visit. And with Gabriel half way across the country at school, you don’t think he’s coming either.

And after three more days without contact from anyone. You start to accept that maybe they don’t think you’re worth helping.

Maybe it’s too late for you, just like for that pigeon.

Once again, angels and heaven and flying and  _wings_  all come to the forefront of your mind

You let the thoughts of these lull you to sleep.

You don’t ask for your parents once.

* * *

Then you are 15

And the most beautiful boy you have ever seen turns up at your school and you are utterly amazed.

You see him standing by the lockers, a halo of light reflected around his head and even though you know it’s just the reflection of the dodgy bulbs, you think this is what an angel must look like.

You immediately slap yourself for ever thinking such a sappy thought but you can’t help it. This boy is utter perfection and you feel like you’re in a romantic comedy because emotions like this can’t actually be real…but right now, they feel it.

And that’s ok with you.

* * *

The boy is in your class.

And you become friends.

And you think it may just be the best thing ever.

You try and act mature and impressive, even though this guy is charming and popular and so, so much cooler than you could ever hope to be. He’s tall, handsome, pretty damn smart and so funny you want to scream at his perfection.

You’re pretty sure you’re in love with him…

But that can’t be.

Because he definitely just sees you as a friend.

Which is what you are.

You help him with his homework on Tuesday nights and he gives you a lift home when he finishes baseball.

He tells you about his little brother and his mom who died, and how his dad is a mess. And you do your upmost best to support him because this boy deserves nothing but the absolute finest in life and god damnit you’re going to do your best to give it to him.

You are a strong figure for him…for the first time in your life, you are the one in control of the situation, you are the one someone looks up to and you can’t even believe it right now…but you can’t compromise that.

So you get over him.

Or at least you try.

* * *

He buys you a pet bird.

He heard you talking about them constantly. Saw the books in your room and the documentaries you had saved on Netflix. Neither of you tell your parents, but they stopped coming into your room years ago- so you don’t think they’ll notice. You worry the chirping will wake them up, but this bird doesn’t seem to say much, which you are grateful for. It’s calming company. And you cherish that little life as if it was your own.

You see his wings and the way he remains shut away in his cage and it gave you funny feelings in your stomach.

Because if a bird with a chance at freedom - a bird who could just fly away at any time - always returned to his cage at night and never tried to escape …then maybe it wasn’t so bad here. Maybe this place really was ok.

It makes you feel safe for the first time in far too long.

And a week later you have already realised how much you depend on that little bird for comfort.

It makes you ache and long and you realise that this feeling isn’t foreign.

You used to feel like this a lot.

* * *

Then you are 16.

And you and the boy have kissed.

You and the boy are  _dating._

As in  _together._

A  _couple._

_Boyfriends._

This may just be the happiest you’ve ever felt.

You haven’t thought about escaping with your wings for a long time.

* * *

Then you are 17

.

And everything has fallen apart.

* * *

He’d left.

No warning or anything.

Just a hastily scrawled note stuffed through the letter box that you found on your way to school and a text with the word  _‘sorry.’_

His dad was in trouble. He needed to help him. He was dropping out of school and moving in with an Uncle. He’s got his phone and a laptop and you two are gonna keep in contact no matter what. But he had no choice.

But somehow that doesn’t hurt any less.

But you give him leniency…and time. You want him to be ok, and so you wait for him.

The first call is a day later, letting you know he’s ok. His Uncle Bobby has taken him and Sam in while John goes into rehab. He doesn’t have much but he has wifi and enough to pay the phone bill, so you know you two will be all right.

It’s just a matter of distance.

But you can manage.

You’d manage anything for him.

* * *

He tells you about his new school. His new friends.

His life seems so exciting now that he has the safety and security of his Uncles house.

He says he’s going to visit as soon as he can.

But when he rings up to cancel saying he and his friend Lisa had a weekend project they just  _had_ to do, you let the inevitable rock sink into your chest.

He talks about Lisa a lot.

How she’s smart and pretty and funny.

He has other friends too but somehow Lisa seems to stick out, and you worry because you know he’s bisexual and he could easily fall for her and you try and convince yourself that he won’t. That he loves you. Because he promised.

But some days you aren’t sure anymore.

And then you see a picture of him on facebook – tagged with Lisa. They are wrapped around each other on the couch laughing at some unknown joke, and the caption just reads ‘ _lovebirds’._

You feel like you’re suffocating. All the air forced out of you and you’re falling, falling,  _falling._

He comments with a frowny face, and a ‘ _really guys.’_ And you try and let that settle you, because he never once said you two weren’t still together.

But the next time he speaks about her, you try and divert the subject as quickly as you can – because somehow you still feel like you’re being replaced.

But it’s ok.

He says he still loves you.

And right now that’s enough.

* * *

But then it starts to happen.

He’d become slower at replying to texts

And calls had become less frequent.

And Skype dates had been rescheduled.

And then text replies had slowed almost completely.

And call times had halved.

And Skype dates had been skipped or just cancelled altogether.

But it’s the moment you realise he hasn’t told you he loves you in nearly 2 weeks, and he cuts you off before you can even say it yourself.

That’s when your resolve breaks completely.

* * *

You cry yourself to sleep that night for the first time since you were 13 and sat on a staircase listening to your parents fight.

Flying once again…seems like a remarkably good idea.

* * *

You cheat.

You don’t mean to.

Well…you don’t think you do.

You’d just been so unbelievably  _lonely_. Because your parents are never home and neither is your brother and you are so viciously hated at school, that your only friends are wary of speaking to you in public. And even the new group that you’d befriended together with  _him_ , no longer get on with you that well. They were  _his_ friends first and you can’t help but feel like for some reason they resent you.

You know it sounds paranoid. But you’re a paranoid person.

Years of just waiting for the next punch to come can do that to a person.

* * *

This girl, Meg. She’d seemed friendly.

And kind.

And more than anything she had been  _there._

And you think that is the reason behind all of this happening, more than anything else…the fact that she was just there.

Finding you in the corridors after school and forcing you into her car. Shipping you over to whatever party was happening that night and plying you with alcohol because you were just so  _tired…_ and you didn’t want to get punched again.

You didn’t sleep with her though.

Despite anything else you did, you did  _not_ sleep with her.

You’ve only ever slept with one person.

And you will hold that knowledge close to your heart and hope to God that it helps fill some of the emptiness you now feel.

* * *

It doesn’t.

* * *

You tell him.

You break up.

He slams the screen of his laptop shut and you cry into your pillow for what feels like hours, only to fall asleep, then wake up and immediately start crying again.

This isn’t living, you know that.

But your parents don’t care and your brothers off in California and the only people you can talk to were  _his_ friends first and you feel like your entire world is crumbling down around you and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

Except that there is.

And that option is becoming more and more appealing as the days go by.

* * *

A week later, he and Lisa become an item.

That’s the first time you become blackout drunk.

You don’t know if they had always had something, but now you feel like they must have.

Because a week isn’t long to get over someone you loved.

Or maybe he just never loved you at all.

* * *

A picture of an angel replaces the picture of you and him as your phone background.

It gives you hope.

Hope that you too, can have your wings soon.

Not hope for a future with him.

Because the fact he refuses any and all attempts at contact says enough about that possibility.

* * *

All of a sudden, you see him again

He doesn’t seem happy about it.

He came back to collect his dads stuff. They are selling the house now John has left rehab and wants to move in with Bobby – removing every last shred of evidence that they were ever even in this town.

It hurts.

He shouts and screams and yells all kinds of terrible things at you, and you know you deserve them all but somehow you feel like this is just hitting a little too hard.

You try and try and try to get him to hear you out. To hear what you have to say to hope maybe you can work through this and at least be friends.

He doesn’t seem to agree.

He doesn’t even talk to you.

Until one day, months and months and months later…

He does.

* * *

It’s a simple text. A ‘ _good morning’_ , nothing more.

But you think it’s enough.

Because it feels like things are finally starting to look up.

You discover he and Lisa have broken up.

Despite everything, your heart  _sings._

* * *

A week later and you find him again. Sitting at the bar in the restaurant you’re picking up shifts in.

You didn’t realise he was still in town.

He’s drunk.

You don’t know who the hell gave him alcohol because for God’s sake he looks younger than you….but still.

He sees you.

And he laughs.

He starts ranting to the person next to him. Swaying awkwardly on the seat as he gesticulates wildly, much to the other patrons alarm.

Your face heats with embarrassment and you run back into the kitchen with the dishes, unsure of what to think. Until that is you’re forced to think when your manager comes in and demands you ‘take your pissed up friend out of here’.

He’d been yelling apparently.

You’re going to be in trouble. You can tell. Underage drinkers always cause trouble for the manager and he likes to take his anger out on the younger members of staff when possible. You shudder. Forgetting about your manager though, you’re biggest fear is facing him again. You don’t think you can handle another round of hate. This is so, so bad.

But then on the other hand, it is so, so good. Because he  _finally_  talks to you again…in person.

In fact…he does more than talk.

The moment you are outside, his body half slung over your own, he grabs your face and slams his own into it. Demanding you take him home and touch and kiss and  _fuck_ him.

You protest, trying to push him away, telling him, no and he’s drunk and please.

But he begs and begs and begs and eventually, you relent. Because you know you want this, and you desperately hope that maybe he really does too – regardless of the beer.

And you start to feel like maybe this is him forgiving you. Maybe this is him telling you that you are ok now, that you can be friends again and that you can go back to working on being more.

And when you make love, or whatever they call it, you are so unbelievably happy that you feel like you could burst.

But then the morning after comes.

You look around your room, see your clothing littering the floor and the door hanging slightly ajar.

And he’s gone without a trace.

You have _never_  felt so empty in your life.

* * *

Then you are 18.

The bird he got you has died. Symbolising God knows what but it feels like an anchor weighing down on your heart.

You haven’t spoken to him in months.

* * *

You graduate.

It doesn’t feel right without him there to cheer you on, but you get over it.  You’re off to California yourself. To join your brother. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t spoken in years. Some small part of you still hopes he’ll be there for you. You need anyone right now.

A party is thrown for the AP class’s at someone’s house and you go, if only to take your mind off things.

You don’t know that he’s going to be there.

* * *

Almost the moment you walk through the door, you feel a beer can being thrust into your hand. You’re in a daze, flashing lights and a loud, pumping baseline surround you; making your head spin and the clammy atmosphere produced by too many teenagers is too small a room doesn’t help.

You stumble inside, heading towards Garth who’s clearly had one too many beers and who’s waving you over – hugging a girl you know from work with one arm as she laughs into her drink.

He greets you cheerfully, and you give a small smile, reaching out to return the boys offered fist bump and slumping down on the couch next to him.

The girl brings up the disaster of the drunk-friend-at-the-bar incident and you wince- not realising the rest of the staff knew about that-  but keep smiling, trying to push away to sudden vice that has gripped your heart. Swirling images of the steamed up car and the heat of your room erupt into your mind. You can smell the scent of him on your pillow and feel the soft pull of the sheets the morning after; feel yourself rolling over in them with a smile, only to find the space next to you cold and empty. You feel the phantom of tears you had cried, finding all of his belongings gone; the room empty and bare – nothing left to remind you of what had unravelled that night except a set of nail marks down your back and a purpling hickey on your neck.

Your eyes burn but you quickly blink the feeling away, shaking yourself out and trying to block out the thoughts threatening to invade your head.

Thinking of him can only cause pain for you now.

.

After drinking more than you should, you get up and stumble past the bodies already lying on the floor, seeing Jo and Charlie and Benny and Kevin strewn around – the whole of that friendship group you had shared with  _him -_ and you suddenly realise with a blinding panic that this isn’t just a party. And your heart stops beating and your throat goes dry and all of a sudden you feel like you may faint.

This isn’t just a party.

It’s a  _reunion._

And  _he_ is here. Standing on the other side of the room and staring at you with wide, shocked eyes.

And everything stops.

* * *

He comes over.

You don’t move.

He wants to talk.

And you find you really,  _really_ don’t.

* * *

He leans over and places a hand on your shoulder. You flinch and pull away, backing into a corner and curling in on yourself, as if you could just disappear and fly off if you try hard enough.

He keeps asking you to just talk to him. You duck away from his attempts at contact and try and stay silent, hoping that he’ll just go away because even looking at him brings up memories and makes you remember how dirty and cheap and  _used_ you had felt.

Why would he want to talk to you, you think, tucking your head back into the crook of your elbow, he’s made no attempt since that night, you know…you checked your phone every day, just in case an explanation awaited.

One never came.

And it slowly broke your heart once again.

There is silence.

You look up and see his face, he looks shocked. Then you realise you’ve spoken that aloud and you cringe.

He blinks.

* * *

He tries to make you continue and reaches out once again; however this time you forcibly shove his hand away.

You get to your feet, shaking slightly, your drink dulled mind spinning and you push past him; making sure your back is the only thing facing his direction.

You know you made some mistakes but this time it’s not you that should be apologising. You know that.

He pushes.

You resist.

He pushes more.

You can feel your resolve breaking.

He pushes once more.

You give in.

* * *

You speak.

No, you shout.

You voice feelings that have been kept hidden for so long. Feelings that have been breaking you down piece by piece for weeks now.

You yell and you scream because you tried. You really, really  _tried_. And you though the two of you were doing well because he was finally replying to your messages and you skyped and you talked and then that night happened and you really though things were looking up. But oh no.

You feel betrayed. And it hurts more than you think it would have if you’d found out he’d moved on. Because he used you.

It doesn’t matter that he was drunk. He’d been drunk before and  _never_ been like that. He just got what he wanted and left, leaving you feeling cheap and used and so utterly  _worthless_  that you just want everything to stop.

And you get it. He had wanted revenge. He wanted you to get a taste of your own medicine. And yet again, this was something he did perfectly. Because it had worked. You feel worse than ever and seeing his face is just…

You don’t think you can take it.

And then he gets defensive.

He yells back and brings up you cheating and how it wasn’t fair on him and you’ve heard all of this before. You know how this goes.

But then he calls you unreasonable. Unreasonable for feeling how you feel about him and about Lisa. Because you made the decision to leave him when you  _cheated._

And that stops you in your tracks and your voice cuts off to a hoarse croak and you just stare at him.

Because after all this…has he still not got it?

You only cheated because he left you first.

* * *

You storm out.

So does he.

* * *

The alcohol is still buzzing in your system and you can’t think straight.

Tears flood your vision and your head is swimming and all you can see are blurred memories of lockers and lunch dates and sly glances and hand holding and his stupid, stupid smile…and your bird.

The little bird who  _flew._

And you think about how he died.

And you think about heaven.

And you think about angels

And flying

And _freedom._

It all sounds so wonderful and you are just so so  _sad_  and you wonder why you didn’t do this earlier.

* * *

You’re climbing.

You’re not sure what it is you are climbing but you know it’s tall. It might be a drainpipe.

As you climb you think back on a conversation you’d had years ago.

You were talking about being a superhero, about how you could fly, and about how, as an 8 year old, you had to take some creative license with how you made yourself fly.

Jumping off a wall doesn’t count as flying he had said.

You disagreed.

It did until you hit the ground.

* * *

You’re on top of a building.

You’re not sure which building or how you really got up there. You know climbing was involved but that’s about it.

You think it might be your friends house.

You can hear music coming from inside and the sun is starting to come up and now you’re sure it’s your friends house.

It’s pretty out here.

You’re on a flat terrace. A roof garden you think. And it’s oh so pretty. And so what if the flowers remind you of his eyes, or the way the rising sun glints off the brick makes you think of his hair.

It doesn’t matter now.

Nothing matters now.

You’re about to get your wings.

* * *

_…If happy little blue birds fly…_

* * *

You’re already close to the side and you take one more step towards it.

You hear a voice.

It sounds just like  _his_ voice. It sounds like he’s calling for you. But you laugh. You know he isn’t.

Because that would imply he cared.

The toe of your shoes hooks over the edge as you stare down; eyes locking on the earth below. It’s a long way down.

God is it a long way down.

* * *

_…Above the rainbow…_

* * *

Everything seems to go very quiet. The chirps of the birds punctuating the breeze and you breathe it in. Embracing the soft sounds. Ignoring that solitary voice that you know you must be imagining.

You look up. Staring straight ahead and catching sight of a small group of swallows - dodging and weaving and soaring through the sky in the early morning light.

_…Why…_

Your other leg moves. There is a shout.

_…oh…_

You step. There is a cry

_…why…_

You slip. There is a yell

_…Can’t…_

You fall. There is a scream

_…I?_

You fly.

There is nothing.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

You wake up.

.

.

.

.

.

 _He_  is there

* * *

You’re in a hospital.

And he is crying.

He says its because he’s sorry and you don’t understand.

He weeps and sobs and tells you he’s sorry over and over again and that he forgives you and that he hopes you can forgive him.

You think you misheard him.

You didn’t.

* * *

You start to wonder if any of this is real or not.

It all seems so surreal.

Your parents are here and they look…concerned. Which is so much more than they have looked in a long time. You had given up on hoping to see them with any expression other than disgust directed at you and this is a welcome change. They leave shortly after you wake but they tell you they’ll be back.

You don’t know whether to believe them.

Your friends are here too. Friends. They really are  _your_  friends. They tell you how sorry they are too. How they never realised you felt this bad and how they are such awful people for not noticing sooner and how they love you and wish you well and they bring chocolate and cards and even a balloon.

You feel like you belong.

And of course…he is here. With his beautiful smile and his eyes that stare at you with care and wonder as he strokes your arm. And he confirms what you were wary about with the others. Confirms that they really are your friends, because after your fight at the party they had grabbed him and completely torn him apart.

He was in the wrong.

They told  _him_ that  _he_ was wrong.

They may have been his friends first…but after what happened  _that night_ , they stuck up for  _you._

You don’t even know how they knew….but they did.

And they care for you.

And he does too.

And he wants to talk and reconcile and forgive, but not forget.

But finally… _finally_  move forward.

* * *

You don’t realise for three days that you tried to commit suicide.

You never looked at it like that.

But now you realise what it was.

You want to cry, but you don’t.

You hold it in.

But you understand the sorrys and the apologies and the crying now.

You understand why this sudden upheaval of emotion occurred and you are suddenly glad that this happened.

Because it has been a catalyst for something so much bigger.

And whilst you know people’s emotions are superficial now - just a result of all the drama, you hope that once the shock subsides…they can grow into something real.

And you feel hope.

* * *

You hear him describing you to the doctors.

You think he is painting you in far too favourable a light.

He calls you handsome and brave and charming and talented.

He says you are a boy who speaks like gravity is the only thing anchoring you to the world.

It’s times like this that you realise that you’re glad gravity is there.

Because right now…you really don’t want to leave.

Now is not the time for you to get your wings.

You’re glad it’s not already too late

* * *

Then you are 24.

And you are getting married.

* * *

It is the happiest day of your life, no matter what your married co-workers jokingly try and tell you.

The ceremony is perfect.

The weather is divine, the venue serene. The outfits he had had tailored specifically for you fit wonderfully and make you believe it when he calls you  _beautiful._

But you think the most special part of the day are the vows.

You wrote yours yourself

.

.

.

They say love is a lot like falling.

Like taking a jump and praying the other person will catch you.

You don’t agree… Love, to you is more than that. It’s like unfolding your wings and letting everything out, healing each other through care and affection. Creating and re-building those useless things holding you back until they become something to carry you on into the future. Love allows you to be something. To become  _something_ to  _someone._

It’s more than falling. If you turned the world sideways, then falling would just be flying and that’s exactly it.

It’s like extending your hand and praying that the other person will take it. Take it so when your wings open you are together…always together and so close together that those newly built wings can help you both escape to your own personal paradise.

Love is about wings.

And with Dean …love feels a lot like flying

* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought of this. 
> 
> I was super nervous about posting this fic.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at thedelightfulrogue for more fics. I accept prompts.


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